


Souvenir

by Neyiea



Series: But you can't be free, 'cause I'm selfish, I'm obscene [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jerome and Bruce have opposing ideas on what counts as a date, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Jerome slips away during the chaos of his mad carnival being put to an end, taking a jagged memento with him, but he doesn't go very far.He has a special someone who he wants to see again.





	Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

> I always have a mighty need to write Jerome/Bruce, and considering that my other Valeyne/Wayleska fic is the slowest-burn thing I've ever written I've gotta make up for it by writing stuff like this, I guess? Sometimes you just have to dive right in.
> 
> xoxo

The first thing to make Bruce stir is the feeling of a breeze against his cheek. The second is the muted sound of fabric rustling.

The thing that makes his eyes snap open, alarms sounding off in his head, is the realization that there is something touching his face.

The sight of Jerome, his skin re-stapled in place and crouching over Bruce in his bed like some sort of demonic figure from an episode of sleep paralysis, is enough to make his heart seize in his chest. 

“I brought you a little souvenir of our special night,” Jerome says, as if that was enough of an explanation for this situation, and he taps the flat side of the mirror shard that Bruce had gripped in his hand only hours ago against Bruce’s lips. Now that Bruce is awake Jerome seems to have no problem resting his weight against him, effectively pinning Bruce to the bed. “I thought about following you, after you so rudely left me on my own, and slitting your pretty pink throat with this.”

Bruce swallows dryly, and he juts out his chin and stares into Jerome’s eyes with as much defiance as he can muster. “Why didn’t you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t get to play with you anymore if you died, would I? Also…” Jerome shifts overtop of him, eyes half-open and glimmering darkly. “Our little tango led me to a few interesting realizations, especially in that maze of mirrors.” His piercing gaze locks with Bruce’s as if he’s searching for something hidden underneath the surface. “You were brutal,” he says it like it’s meant to be compliment, and Bruce feels himself break out into goosebumps at the memory of what he’d almost done. “You were breathtaking. If you hadn’t left me so soon,” his voice drops to a suggestive whisper, “I think our first date would have come to a very different conclusion.”

“Date?” Bruce can’t keep the harsh incredulity from slipping into his tone. “You kidnapped me, you threw the city into chaos, and you tried to _kill_ me.”

“I surprised you, I showed off what I was capable of, and I _didn’t_.” The mirror shard twists in Jerome’s hand, and he lightly drags the edge of it across Bruce’s cheek as he leans in far too close for comfort. “I’m not killing you now either, as you’ll notice. I’m just, ha, playing with my favourite boy.”

Bruce tries to shift a little further away, Jerome’s eerie grin and his intrusion into Bruce’s personal space and his choice of words are making even more internal alarms go off. Jerome doesn’t allow him any freedom, though, if anything he looms even closer in retaliation. 

“What do you want, Jerome?”

And what exactly did playing with Bruce entail if it wasn’t going to end in death?

“Isn’t it obvious?” He presses the tip of the shard between Bruce’s lips, and Bruce opens his mouth to keep his skin from being torn by the jagged edges. “I’m here for my goodnight kiss.”

“What?” Bruce’s teeth clack against the glass as he speaks, and Jerome chuckles lowly before withdrawing the makeshift weapon.

“I brought you to a carnival that you’ll never forget, Brucie. I think you at least owe me a kiss for that.” Jerome’s free hand grips his chin, just a shade too-rough. “Don’t you agree?”

No.

But Jerome still has the sharp piece of mirror in his other hand, and Bruce did not survive Gotham’s blackout and Jerome’s twisted machinations at the carnival just to be cut open mere hours later in his own home, in his own bed.

“Fine. Kiss me, then.” He words it like a dare, false courage and no small amount of irritation keeping him aloft in this situation that he could otherwise easily drown in.

“I could,” Jerome says, cheerily agreeable, “but I want you to kiss me, not the other way around. I showed you such a good time, didn’t I? You should reward me for it.”

Bruce can’t keep the frown off of his face. Jerome merely laughs at his expression. 

“C’mon,” he drawls, “be a good boy, Bruce.”

Bruce grits his teeth and none-too-gently lifts up his hands to dig them into Jerome’s red hair, and he pulls him down harshly with the intent to lay one firm kiss upon his smiling mouth before doing his best to get himself out of this situation.

Knee Jerome in the groin, maybe. Or at the very least wrestle the shard out of his hand.

The kiss starts off the way Bruce expects it to: hard and closed-mouthed, and Jerome shaking with silent laughter over top of him. That only makes Bruce angrier, which makes him dig his nails right into Jerome’s scalp. 

And then Jerome moans into the kiss, and presses Bruce back firmly against his pillows, and Bruce has nowhere to retreat to in order to get away from Jerome’s too-wide, too-eager mouth.

Something hot and slick runs along his lips, and Bruce’s hands loosen their grip in Jerome’s hair so that he can push against his shoulders. Jerome pulls back, only enough to break the kiss, and he hovers over Bruce with a wide smile as he runs his tongue over his own lips.

“You’re adorable,” he coos, and Bruce’s hands curl into fists at his tone, “you kiss like you’re still a kid who has no idea what to do. Here, I’ll teach you how teenagers are supposed to kiss.”

Bruce doesn’t even have time to protest before Jerome’s mouth meets his. When he feels the tongue running over his lips he keeps them firmly shut, at least until he feels something sharp scrape across his cheek. The pressure is too light to slice through skin, but the threat of it is enough to make his hair stand on end. 

He parts his lips, and Jerome sighs happily as he finally gets what he wants.

Bruce’s hands flutter over Jerome’s back, unsure what to do with them. He squirms at the feeling of something unfamiliar skimming into his mouth; filling him up in a strange new way, running along his teeth, lapping at his hard palate, and dragging against his own tongue. Jerome keeps making encouraging, soft noises, and he presses against Bruce’s entire body like he can’t get enough, and after Bruce has had a chance to get accustomed to the new sensations he finds that he kind of likes the feel of it despite himself. He tries to mimic Jerome’s movements, because the sooner this is over the better and the quicker he can try to forget all about it. He tilts his head, and opens his mouth wider, and eventually he finds his hands coming back to rest in Jerome’s soft hair.

He can’t tell if reciprocating was really that good of an idea, though, when Jerome’s response to it just seems to be to kiss him harder and deeper instead of calling it a night. 

A strangled sound, kittenish and embarrassing, falls out of Bruce’s mouth.

Then Jerome slides a leg between his own, pressing right against the apex of his thighs, and Bruce freezes.

Jerome laughs against him, and that only makes him feel worse.

“Don’t worry, darlin’, I won’t go too far tonight.” He bites Bruce’s top lip hard enough that Bruce jolts, and he laughs again as he pulls back. “You’re so sweet. I can’t wait to show you what you’ve been missing out on.”

“Missing out on?” Bruce repeats, voice weaker than he’d like. Jerome hums and pushes his thumb into Bruce’s mouth, resting the pad of it against Bruce’s tongue. Bruce stares up at him with wide eyes, keeping his lips parted, and Jerome looks down at him like he’s ravenous for something that Bruce doesn’t know how to give.

“You’re awfully naive for a teenager,” Jerome tells him, pulling his thumb out of Bruce’s mouth after a few moments of waiting for Bruce to do something. “Haven’t you ever watched any porn?”

Bruce feels his cheeks go hot. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s a no, then. Such a good, virtuous boy,” he praises, and Bruce is fairly certain that he’s being mocked. “I bet you’ve never even touched your dick to thoughts of any of your rich little friends.”

“Don’t talk about stuff like that!”

“Don’t worry, Brucie, I don’t mind,” Jerome tells him in a soothing tone, as if Bruce cared about whether or not he minded anything. “I kind of like it, actually. You’re like a blank slate. You’ve been waiting so patiently for me to mark you up.” Jerome’s fingers trail across the thin white line that he’d left on Bruce’s neck last year.

“No, I have not.”

Jerome ignores his words, and at this point Bruce doesn’t find that too surprising, and instead his attention focuses on the clean bandage around Bruce’s arm. He rips it away and presses his fingers against the small wounds found there, opening them back up, and his sharp eyes search Bruce’s expression for any sign of pain or weakness.

Bruce stares up at him and doesn’t let himself blink.

“We really will make a good team,” Jerome says with an air of finality, as if it’s already been decided and Bruce has no say in the matter. He brings his fingers up to his mouth and he licks off the trace amounts of blood that had been smeared along the tips, eyes fluttering shut like it’s something that he wants to savor. “I’m going to blow you away on our second date.”

Bruce tenses.

First of all, the first thing that comes to his mind is Jerome being the source of another explosion, and if his detonation at the power plant was enough to cause Gotham to fall into darkness and chaos for hours, what would another bring? 

Second of all, second date?

“Last night was not a date. We are not dating. Period, end of story.”

Jerome doesn’t appear to take his words to heart. At all.

“You’ll come around, in time. I’ve got big plans for us.”

And that, somehow, is the most unnerving thing that Jerome has ever said to him.

Jerome ducks down to press one last kiss to Bruce’s nose, of all things, and then he rolls out of Bruce’s bed with vexing amount of grace. Bruce watches with narrow eyes as Jerome brings the mirror shard up to his mouth, kissing its surface with an exaggerated gentleness before he lays it down on Bruce’s bedside table.

“Think of me often, darlin’,” he says as he backs up towards the open window. “You’ll be seeing me soon.” He slips outside, and as soon as he’s out of sight Bruce springs out of bed, rushing to the window to catch sight of him dashing across the lawn towards a dark van.

Bruce fumbles for his phone in the dark and once it’s in hand he flips it open, but before he punches any numbers in he glances at the mirror shard that had been left on his bedside table.

If he dials 911 to report Jerome’s appearance, just how much would he have to tell the officers? How much would he have to tell Alfred? The idea that anyone else would know what had just transpired makes something uncomfortable and shameful twist inside of him.

He does not want to experience anything that Jerome constitutes as a date. Not unless there were literal lives on the line, and this was Jerome, so of course there would be lives on the line. He has to get caught before he can implement whatever new, mad scheme must be running though his head, especially since it was likely that he was going to try and involve Bruce in some way.

But Bruce absolutely cannot tell anyone about what Jerome snuck into his home to ask for. 

He dials Detective Gordon instead, already plotting out a story of an attempted break in. The tire tracks that have been left as evidence on his lawn and his own eyewitness testimony will be enough for Gordon to look into it. 

As he listens to the phone ring he brings up a hand to trace at his sore, swollen lips.

In the very back of his mind, in a whisper that he will internally claim to have misunderstood later, he admits that he likes the way teenagers kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, these boys. If I find some time I may write what Jerome would happily consider to be their second date, because I need more of this pairing in my life.


End file.
